


The Ripple Effect

by holmesian_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 12:34:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24849844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmesian_love/pseuds/holmesian_love
Summary: A slight shift sideways after the tarmac post season 3 of how John and Sherlock might have interacted when the plane returned.
Relationships: Johnlock
Comments: 32
Kudos: 65





	1. Back to Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlockWatson_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/gifts).



He ran up the stairs with such focussed energy, like it was any other day. Like he hadn’t just nearly died. Again.

“Come on, John!” he shouted with his usual enthusiasm when a case is afoot. There was always something in the way he called my name that made me follow. I had no choice but to follow that voice. It irritated me. How easily he could make me follow him. I sighed to myself and followed up the stairs into the flat.

I instantly noticed how dingy and musty the flat was. Of course, he had not been back since Magnussen. The flat had been untouched for nearly two weeks. Mrs Hudson must have emptied the bin and cleaned a little, as it didn’t smell nearly as bad as it could have done, given how Sherlock normally lived. All his experiments.

“Sherlock…” I didn’t really know what I wanted to say but my irritation was building and I wanted him to know it.

He was rifling around the flat, lifting papers and turning on his computer while muttering incoherently to himself at a ridiculous pace.

“Sherlock!” I yelled, this time more forcefully so he stopped.

“What?” his eyebrows drew together in frustration. The way he looked at his idiot flatmate when he didn’t want to be interrupted. I remembered that look well. Can’t say I missed it much, although secretly I know I did.

“Sherlock, you need to just sit for a minute…”  
  
“How can I sit when something so incredibly interesting is going on, John?”

“Interesting? You mean Moriarty?”

“Yes of course, Moriarty!”

“Well you did just take an impressive overdose cocktail of drugs. I’d like to at least check you over first.” I said, hoping to at least win this argument.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m fine, John.”

“Sherlock, please – just let me…”

“No no, there’s no need. The work is what matters. Are you going to help me, or just stand in the door being useless and sentimental?”

"Jesus.” I let out a breath, half hysterical laugh, half frustration. I didn’t mean to but it was enough to stop Sherlock in his tracks briefly. “You really are a selfish prick sometimes.”

A look I couldn’t figure out crossed his face briefly, before he returned to his usual cocky mask, his air of confidence and control.

“Well?” It was an invitation – was I to stay or go?

I stood there knowing that he was aware I usually caved at this point and would just go along with it. This time, I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to realise there was a line he crossed today. For the last time. And I wasn’t going to stand for it.

“Fine? You’re fine are you? Taking a lethal cocktail of drugs is _fine_? And I’m useless and sentimental?! Brilliant Sherlock just brilliant! You know, I think I _will_ go. I will go home to my wife and leave you to your brilliance here. Alone. Don’t bother to call me if you’re having a heart attack.”

I stormed out of the flat slamming the door as I left but unable to make myself walk beyond halfway down the stairs before I leaned against the wall, my head in my hands.

Sherlock, quietly opened the door to the flat. I was hoping he wouldn’t have noticed that I had stopped but of course he did.

“John…”

“Just don’t, Sherlock. Don’t bother.”

“I…” he hesitated. “You’re right.”

“I’m what?” I looked up at him. He never said that.

“You should probably just check me over at least. Just to make sure.”

I nodded. It was the closest thing to an apology that was ever going to cross his lips. I could pretend that I wasn’t going to follow him, but of course I would. He knew I would. He walked back in to the flat and left the door open for me. When I walked slowly back in and took my coat off, he was already sitting on the sofa. Waiting. I sat beside him and he offered his wrist for a pulse check. He knew the drill. We sat in silence as I counted. Then he quietly handed me a pen torch from his pocket to which I raised my eyebrows. _When did he get that?_ And looked into his eyes. His amazing beautiful eyes that I so often got lost in. I wondered briefly if he knew. If he could read me well enough to notice. But surely not, or he would have noticed so many times before and said something. Surely. It wasn’t like him to keep anything to himself.

It was hypnotic. Checking him over like this. Something we had done after many cases. The only time it was acceptable to be this physically close, breathing into each other’s space. But it always had a mechanical, medical feel about it. Nothing erotic. At least not on the surface. And not to him.

“Sorry.” He said quietly – almost inaudibly.

I let out a breath I hadn’t even noticed I had been holding in my anger. “Sherlock. What were you thinking?” I looked up into his eyes. “What were you trying to do?”

“I was solving the case. I had to go deep.”

“No. No, Sherlock. You didn’t even know about Moriarty. Not when you took the drugs. Don’t mess with me. What were you really doing?”

“I wanted it on my terms.”

“Sorry, what?” I asked, not expecting that answer.

“On _my_ _terms_ John.” He said more forcefully as if I was too stupid to understand. “Do keep up. Mycroft made a deal. For Magnussen. I was going to Eastern Europe to work for the government, but he knew I was not coming back. They gave it six months.”  
  
“You said that. Six months and then?”

Sherlock paused and looked at me. Really looked at me, and my stomach dropped.

“What?” I gasped. “Mycroft sent you to your _death_? His own brother?!”

“You know how he works. There was a chance. A slim one, but it was more likely I would be serving out my sentence by completing their tasks and then conveniently not surviving to have to be managed back at home. Queen and Country. You know all about that. You understand.”

“So you… wait. You thought you would rather just off yourself on the plane ride and save them the trouble?” My voice had started to shake and I couldn’t get it under control. It was irritating.

“I wouldn’t ever give Mycroft the satisfaction.”

“Oh don’t you _dare_ make jokes now Sherlock! Not to me.” He had the sense to sit quietly beside me looking at his hands in his lap.

“My blog.” I said it under my breath to myself as the meaning of that moment finally made sense, shaking my head.

“What about it?”

“You were reading my blog. On the plane”

“Yes.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if to challenge me on it.

“Rather sentimental, even for you.” I looked at him openly, hopeful he would decide to say more.

“Well if I was going to die, I thought it would be nice to remember our time together. I do actually _like_ reading your blog you know. You always make me sound so much better than I really am.”

I sat for a minute. Breathing loudly and then I just snapped. The idea that he could be so flippant with me about his possible death and about our friendship.

“Jesus. I can’t.” I stood up and paced. “Seriously? Sherlock. What the hell is _wrong_ with you?! How could you do that? _Again_.” I couldn’t breathe. The air in here was so stuffy, why was it so stuffy? Why did he never open the bloody windows? “You really aren’t human!” I stopped, briefly gauging his reaction. I shouldn’t have said it. He just sat there looking at the floor, not making eye contact. I couldn’t stand the tension in the air.

“John…”

“Ah, no.” I pointed a finger at him. My _shut up Sherlock_ finger. He knew it well. “No, I’m not doing this. I’m not going to just say this is ok. Because it’s not ok. Not again. This is all very _not_ ok Sherlock, and someone needs to be the one to tell you. Someone that’s not Mycroft needs to let you know this is not ok. It’s not annoying brotherly concern to tell you not to off yourself. People care about you, you know. This stuff matters to some of us. You dying actually matters to some people. What you do to yourself actually affects others.”

“John….?” Sherlock looked at me for the first time, really looked at me and I realised he actually didn’t realise. He didn’t even know how much he meant to people. To me.

“No. I’m not doing this. I need some air before I do something I regret. Like punch you. I can’t talk about this with you. You’re fine. Your pulse is a little faster than I’d like but if you could do me a favour and just…take it easy please and try not to take any more bloody drugs for the next twenty-four hours? Then you should be ok. I’ll come back and check on you later but right now, I need some air.” and I stormed out leaving him behind.

I didn't see that he was looking after me with a lost expression and dark eyes.


	2. What Happened Next?

“Lestrade. Good. You’re here.” I say, making myself at home in a chair.

“My god, Sherlock. I just saw on the telly. What’s happening. What have you got?”  
  
“Nothing yet.” my eyebrows drawing together in thought. I was trying to focus on Moriarty but my mind was still back at Baker Street with John. Lestrade was a bit of an idiot but I didn’t want to be too obvious.

“Where’s John?”

Straight to the sucker punch. Maybe not so much of an idiot after all. _John_. John would be furious that I had left Baker Street to come to The Yard in his state.

“He’s…opted out for the moment.” I say casually.

“What? That doesn’t sound like him.”

“We may have had a disagreement about my… methods.”

“Sherlock…” Lestrade sounded dubious, leaning back in his chair.

“Here’s the thing, Gary..."

“Greg.” He said, annoyed.

I stopped and looked at him to deduce if that was in fact correct, and then shook my head to clear it.

“Something is bothering him. John, that is. I can’t focus while I’m trying to figure it out.”

“Right.” Lestrade always knew how to wait for more information. He always let me talk everything out first. I always liked how he appreciated my genius. _Wait…was his name really Greg??_

“Did you two… spend time together. You know, when I was gone?”

Lestrade eyed him over. “What did John tell you.”

“Nothing. We’ve barely spoken about this.”

“What? Any of it?” Lestrade was surprised, sitting forward in his chair. Why was he surprised? “You came back from the dead after two years and you haven’t really talked about it? Seriously?”

“Yes. Why? Is that strange?” I didn’t understand.

“Well, yeah. A bit, yeah.”

“Why is it strange? We just sort of, went back to how things were – aside from him getting married, obviously.”

“Sherlock, did John tell you anything about that time - while you were away?”

“No. His left hook and the chinning he gave me told me he was pretty pissed off about it though.” I wriggled my jaw at the memory of that fun evening.

Lestrade laughed. “Yeah that sounds fair. Look, I don’t think it’s really my place to tell you this stuff. If he hasn’t already told you.”

“But I can’t focus. He would have told me by now if he was going to surely.”

“Exactly.” Lestrade could be annoying when he started to have morals.

“Lestrade. I appreciate you being a good friend to John in my absence but I’d think our history precludes that from being your most loyal relationship. I’d like to think you would favour me first!”

“Are you trying to say I should tell you John’s secrets just because I’ve known you longer?”

“Well yes. Basically.” I, on the other hand, did not have morals.

Lestrade sat for a minute. "What did John actually say to you that made you want to ask?"

“He said I had no idea what I had done. He’s right of course. He’s always right. It’s so annoying. And I can’t concentrate until I _do_ know. Do you see?” I paused for effect knowing how to play the game. “ _Please_ ” I had mastered a look that was akin to begging that I knew worked particularly well with Lestrade.

Lestrade let out a sigh of resignation. He could never resist that look.

“He called me. Late one night. After you had...gone. Probably a month or so on. His voice was slurred and thick with alcohol. But there was something else. An edge to his voice I hadn’t heard before. He had called me drunk a few times. Not very often, mind, but just a few times. Once he called and just kind of cried into the phone and said nothing for twenty minutes. This time, there was an edge. He was breathing heavy. I was already out the door while we were still on the phone.” He looked at me to check my reaction to his words, but I wasn’t giving away any emotion. I was deep in thought.

“Eventually he said to me: _“There’s so much blood. Mrs Hudson will be mad.”_ Well, I hung up quick smart and called Mrs Hudson and an ambulance on my way and when I got there, he was curled up on the couch. Scotch in hand, a mostly empty bottle beside him, blood everywhere. And….”

I looked up to let him know to go on, even though I was afraid of what I was going to hear.

“He had sliced his wrists open with a kitchen knife.”

Even now it hadn’t prepared me. I sucked in a breath of shock.

“He was babbling to you as if you were in the room. He was a complete mess, Sherlock. I’ve never seen him so _not_ together. I had no idea he was taking it that badly or I would have… he was so out of control. They kept him in hospital for a month of treatment – recovery and rehab and counselling. It’s where he met Mary, actually.”

Lestrade waited and let the information sink in. When I didn’t speak he went on. “Did he really not tell you _any_ of this? Did you not figure it out? I have to admit I'm surprised by that.”

There was nothing to reply to that. I was already deep in thought and pale. Unable to form words. Without a word I got up from the chair and stormed out of the office.

“What about the case Sherlock? Moriarty?!” Lestrade called after me but I was not stopping.


	3. Not nothing

The text came through late. Luckily I had remembered to set my phone to vibrate. Mary would be livid if I woke her. She was all about getting sleep at the moment. Not long to go.

_I need you. Baker St._

Those simple words staring back at me gave my chest a little start. I never knew with Sherlock whether it was urgent or not but he had a way of just urging you without any logic. He probably needed me to butter his toast or something ridiculous. I ignored it. Out of spite. Ignoring that base desire in me to leap up and chase after the detective. It was the middle of the night for god's sake.

_Please. SH_

The please did it. Sherlock never begged. Well he never begged anyone but me. That was a little known fact but he only used it when it was important. Important to him at least. There was a small part of me that loved that fact. He knew I wouldn’t be able to resist it. Carefully, I slid out of the bed and changed, trying not to wake Mary. I decided to walk to Baker Street. It wasn’t that far and the fresh air would clear my head and make sure I had time to wake up and think properly first. I was still angry from the conversation earlier. So angry. I hadn’t been back to check on him like I'd promised. I started to feel a bit guilty that I had chosen not to go back. Suddenly I was worried. What if he needed medical attention?

_On my way. I’m walking._

_Get a cab._

_I’m walking Sherlock!_

_Fine. Hurry up. SH_

I could hear his loud sigh from here, well in my head anyway. A sign we had spent too long around each other. Sherlock was never one to be patient. He did love to think that everyone was at his beck and call. It gave me a small thrill to think I was messing with his sense of order and control, just a little bit. A small petty win but I would take it. In the end, I became impatient and ran half the way, returning to a steady walk as I got closer, to make sure I wasn’t out of breath. Sherlock observed everything and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. Of course he would figure it out based on the minutes it took me, but he probably wouldn’t say.

As I walked the last few blocks, I started to let my mind wander over the last twenty-four hours. Seeing Sherlock on the tarmac. That moment where words escaped us both. So much was left unsaid. My heart had been in my mouth and in my toes at the same time. A sinking feeling of dread and exhilaration at the possibility of saying something that I shouldn’t say.

The first time Sherlock left, when I thought he had died, I had not been able to say anything. Then he was shot - by Mary of all people- but shot. His heart actually stopped. I didn’t know if I could survive another time. And now, here I was again, dealing with Sherlock leaving again, and the drugs...so many drugs. He could have died, again. It was all too much. I couldn’t fathom how I had managed to end up here... _again_. I knew Sherlock didn’t understand. He didn’t work like that. He had no concept of those sort of feelings.

I was sure that while he had grown to respect me, those sort of sentimental feelings never crossed his mind. The work was all that mattered and in Sherlock’s mind, his death was just a means to an end. In all instances. I was merely collateral damage in the plan. There was no way I could make him see what was lying just under that surface. I couldn’t blame him. I had hidden the truth from myself for so long and it had only been in those times I had lost Sherlock that it made me start to see the reality of the situation.

It was true, I loved Mary and I was loyal to Mary. I would always be. Loyal to a fault. Mary had saved me. She had helped me see light when there was nothing left for me. And she was pregnant with our child. I had been brought up with morals and I knew it was my place to be with her and to see that through.

But the more I was around Sherlock again, it made it so perfectly clear to me that what I felt for Sherlock was so much deeper, so much richer than the love I felt for Mary. Sherlock was my whole world. I would never admit that to him. But the constant threat of the loss of him was slowly destroying me piece by piece.

And being married to Mary, not being at Baker street just made it so much harder.

Finally the familiar trees at the start of Baker Street hailed me and I turned, walking down towards the red sail of the café below the apartment. There was something about home that you could smell. Nothing specific but Baker Street always had a familiar smell for me. Whenever I came back to visit I always stood for a minute and appreciated that scent. I had never worked out what it was.

Probably the Indian family across the road making curry, mixed with the café smells and the exhaust fumes from the traffic mixed with the stink from the tube line, blended with some experiment of Sherlock’s and some mould, I suspect. But whatever it was, it smelled sweet to me and made my insides start to bubble with a familiar excitement which I hated to acknowledge. I missed it.

I took a minute to steel myself in front of the door - handle askew as Sherlock liked it. With no idea what Sherlock needed me here for tonight, I felt a bit on edge. This electricity buzzed in my fingers and chest with the possibilities. Was it a case? An apology? Something ridiculous and mundane which I would act annoyed about but secretly love the idea that Sherlock needed me to be there for.

I used my key. I had never given it back. I should probably make a point of returning that. But a small part of me liked having the key. Liked the idea that I had access to Sherlock at all hours and that Sherlock probably didn’t mind.

I made it up the stairs and stood in the doorway to the flat, a little uncertain. It seemed ridiculous, I had only been there hours earlier, and yet it felt like I was intruding. Things had been said. I suddenly felt nervous. My heart rate had started to pick up in anticipation. Why was I here? I hated confrontation. Surely everything I had said would be forgotten. Sherlock was probably going to talk about something completely unrelated to their earlier conversation. It was usual procedure for me not to need to say anything on arrival and as usual Sherlock looked up from his desk where he was typing madly at the computer. The apartment was…clean. _Sherlock had cleaned?_

He looked me over and closed the laptop, standing up.

I raised his eyebrows in a look which he knew would say: _“Well then, why am I here?”_ without needing to say it. Sherlock always appreciated efficiency.

“John” Sherlock always said my name with a tone that no one else did. I always felt so welcomed home. How I missed hearing that every day.

“So. You asked me to come? I’m here.”

“Yes. You are.” He gave a forced smile, a fake nicety, before his face dropped again.

“Sherlock...” I put on my best air of determination – the: _“tell me why I’m here or I might leave”_ tone in my voice.

Suddenly he looked less sure of himself. It caught me off guard. It wasn't like Sherlock to doubt himself. He stood up from the table and actually looked...nervous.

“John about earlier…”

I swallowed hard. “It’s fine Sherlock. I should be the one apologising. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“No, no. I think that was fair. I deserved it.”

I raised my eyebrows. That was unexpected. Sherlock rarely apologised. Then he drew them together in thought. _What on earth was going on?_

“Did you bring me here at 2am to discuss our argument?”

“No, not really, no.” He was never this unsure of himself. It was actually unnerving.

"So a case then?” I tried.

“Nope.” Sherlock started to walk towards me slowly. He was not stopping. _Why was he walking towards me like that?_ It was predatory almost. I started to be very conscious of my saliva and my inability to swallow now. Sherlock was looking at me very intently. And still coming closer. My instinct told me to step backwards but I wasn’t giving Sherlock the satisfaction so I stood my ground.

“Have you taken something again?” I asked. He was not himself.

Sherlock reached out for my wrist. Normally I would flinch at the lack of boundaries, but I was hypnotised by the look on Sherlock’s face. I hadn’t even processed what was happening until it was too late.

Sherlock lifted my arm up, turning my wrist over to face him, and started to pull at the cuff of my jacket and shirt, moving it back. I was confused. Too late, I remembered myself and tried to pull my hand away, but Sherlock’s grip was too firm.

“Sherlock… _don’t_.” John gasped quietly. _How did he know?_

“John… I need to see…”

“Don’t. Sherlock, just don’t.” I tried to pull my arm away more firmly, embarrassed tears unexpectedly started to form in my eyes, but Sherlock held firm. He was deceptively strong. I had never told him about this, never let him see.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It was a soft whisper, a caress. Spoken softly and sadly. Sherlock was staring at my wrist now, not making eye contact. The scar was raised and indicated a deep cut healed over. Sherlock let his thumb rub over it gently and John closed his eyes, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched.

“It’s nothing.” John whispered through clenched teeth. “Who told you?”

“Lestrade. And it’s _not_ nothing, John.”

“Well regardless. It doesn’t matter now.”

“I didn’t know.” Sherlock looked up at me now, genuine remorse on his face. “No-one told me. I didn’t realise how… how hard it was.”

“Sherlock, it’s fine really. You don’t need to worry.”

“This is why you’re so angry at me now.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Yes. You are. You’ve been angry all day. You’ve been so angry at me you had to walk here just to calm down. You _hate_ walking.”

I let out a breath and pulled my hand away from Sherlock, putting my jacket back in place to cover the scar. I felt a sinking feeling in my chest after releasing the contact, and my skin still burned a bit from where the warmth of Sherlock’s fingers had been touching me moments before. He had never touched me that intimately before.

“Sherlock, it’s all in the past now. Really. You will always be the way you are. You stay detached. That’s not me. I don’t know how to be that detached. We’ve gone through a lot together. You’re my best friend. You’re important to me. You know that. Normal people grieve when they lose the people who are important to them.”

“This is more than grieving John. You are an army doctor. You’ve seen death. You’ve seen people hurt themselves too, I’m sure. You knew what you were doing. I want you to explain this. What happened.”

“Are you going to explain to me what happened to you?” I huffed defensively.

“Maybe. If you need me to.” He said simply.

I let out a sigh and slumped onto the couch.

“Sherlock, I don’t really want to relive this. And to be honest, I don’t really know what to say. I struggled. Watching you jump like that. Thinking I might have been partly responsible. It broke me. It destroyed me to try to consider life without you here every day. Before I met you, my life was empty, depressing. You gave me life, excitement, friendship. To suddenly be dealing with an empty life again. It was hard. I had no sense of direction any more. And yeah, alright. I missed you. _I missed you so much_.”

I was embarrassed to hear the crack in my voice. Sherlock would see it as a sign of weakness, probably. But I couldn't stop now.

“Eventually it became suffocating. I could still hear your voice in my head, smell you in the apartment. I started drinking and then I didn’t stop. Eventually I started to see you walking around the apartment and I didn’t know if I wanted it to stop or wanted it to never go away. No-one understood. They thought you were a fraud. But I knew the truth. _I knew you_. There was no one I could talk to. I think I called Greg a few times. Drunk. He was good about giving me space. Mrs Hudson kept a wide berth and left me tea and food when I was sleeping. One night I couldn’t bear it any more. You were hovering over me – except you weren’t really. But you were telling me how pathetic it was that I was still here, in Baker Street. Telling me nobody would ever be as important to me, as you. You were right of course. Well, _fake_ you was right. And I knew it. I didn’t want to live without you. So I… I don’t really remember but one minute you were taunting me and the next minute there was blood everywhere. _Everywhere._ ”

I was in a trance remembering back. Tears has started to form in my eyes and as I closed them to the memory of it, the tears tripped over the rim of my eyes and made a slow track down my face. That startled me back to reality and I sniffed in and wiped my face quickly with my sleeve, changing mood completely. “Sorry. That’s ridiculous. Anyway. It’s all fine. I got help, Greg got me help and I am fine now. It was hard Sherlock. Of _course_ it was. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I’m sure you wouldn’t be foolish enough to be so weak. But I…. well I _am_ clearly. But you’re back now. You came back and all of that anguish was for…well for nothing, wasn’t it? Which makes it even more ridiculous. I just don’t want to see you hurt yourself again. And I certainly don’t need to go back to that state of mind again myself.”

Sherlock stood in the centre of the room looking at the floor deep in thought.

“That’s what you think?” He finally said quietly.

“What?”

“You think if _you_ died, I wouldn’t feel it?” He asked.

“Um, well…no. I don’t think you let things touch you that deeply. It’s an emotion. You always say emotion is abhorrent.”

“Well yes, I do. That doesn’t mean I actually… that I wouldn’t...” Sherlock stopped talking and walked towards me slowly. I swallowed hard.

“John. Despite what I say, and what I lead people to believe - yourself included it seems - I think you know me better than that. You are important to me. Of _course_ you are. If you were to die, I...I don’t think I could survive it. I just didn’t realise you were the same. I mean, I’m hardly someone worth mourning over. I’m a cock. An annoying, arrogant cock. A freak. I’ve heard it all. It’s ok, I know that about myself. I jumped because I had no other choice, but it was a trick. _I told you it was a trick._ I had hoped you might understand the clues. I thought Mrs Hudson would look after you. And Lestrade. And you would all just…move on.” He said, confused.

“You can’t really mean that. Can you? Do you really think that?” I asked.

“I think the world keeps on turning…after we die. So yes. I thought you would all be okay. I did it to protect you, after all.”

“Sherlock…”

“What?” He asked. He really didn’t see it.

“Don’t you understand? Before you… before you, there was nothing for me. Before you, I was just waiting out death. I wasn’t even _interesting_ enough to get around to taking my own life and ending it, before you came along.”

“John don’t be ridiculous. You’re perfectly interesting.” Sherlock huffed.

“I’m perfectly interesting… _because_ of you. Without you everything is sort of, I don’t know…grey. I didn’t want to live in a world where you weren’t there.”

“But you have Mary now. And a baby on the way, John. You don’t need me.”

“You’re right. There’s Mary. That is true. And we shouldn’t be talking about this. We don’t need to talk about this. But I will say this one thing before I go, Sherlock. If you hadn’t…left me…there would be no Mary. There would be no baby. I didn’t need anything else. So long as you were there. I know you don’t do…feelings, relationships…whatever. It’s always the work _. I know that_. What’s that thing your brother always says? Caring isn’t an advantage? Utterly ridiculous by the way. But I was happy. Just being the work. Just you and me against the world, living here at Baker Street. Doing the work. It’s all I needed. I didn’t need anything more. Without it, I was _nothing_.” I admitted softly. He had to know at least _some_ of it. I would never be able to tell him the whole of it.

“John that’s not true."

“No it is. It _is_ true. Just… I just needed you to know. I was angry today because I don’t want you to leave again. Without _telling_ me you’re leaving...for good. Leaving me behind again. I just…can’t. And I know that’s not fair because I’m not even _here_ anymore. It’s ridiculous, in fact. _I know that_. But you asked.”

Sherlock stood still not able to say anything. I stood up from the couch. It was time to go home.

“Just promise me before you go doing anything stupid like that again, you just…keep me in the loop at least? Hmm? So I don’t _feel_ like I’m nothing?” I pleaded.

Sherlock nodded, not able to speak.

“Right, it’s late. I’m going to go. Mary will be worried if she sees I’ve gone. Sherlock, don't worry, it's all fine okay?” And with that I gave a nod and walked out the door.

“You’re not nothing. Not to me.” Sherlock said into the empty void.


	4. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An additional/ alternate ending for those who need some resolution. Kat this one's for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally written this short angsty fic with an unhappy end - with the reality that John is loyal and would go back to Mary even after telling Sherlock what he had felt.
> 
> But I am gifting this chapter to my lovely supporter and Beta, who was desperate to see a more happy conclusion. And it was a lovely challenge to think of a different ending after I thought I was done! 
> 
> You can choose to end it at Chapter 3, or Chapter 4 - depending on how you prefer your fics. Tortured ending or JL resolution. The choice is yours.
> 
> But Kat, this ending is all yours :)

It was a whole week before I saw him again. A whole week that was far too quiet. Despite Moriarty being back, and a lot of time spent with Lestrade and Mycroft trying to figure out what was going on, John was notably absent. Ignoring his phone. It was irritating. Worrying.

Finally, one evening John came storming into the flat, throwing the door open loudly, to stand in the doorway seething.

“Really Sherlock?” He was properly mad.

“What?” I asked innocently, as I tapped away at my computer.

“You had your brother’s car collect me off the street after work? You couldn’t just ask me to come?”

“Would you have come if I’d asked?” I tried to be casual about it.

“No. Probably not,” he admitted.

“You’ve been avoiding my messages. This was more…efficient,” I said stubbornly.

John sighed and walked in, sat himself down on the couch, and started flicking through the newspapers waiting on the coffee table, already in the comfort of our old routine - when a case was in play, John was on media watch.

“John, I can’t find the pattern - with Moriarty. I can’t get my head around it. It’s too much. I can’t think straight when you’re not here.” I admitted. “So I sent for you.”

“Sherlock, surely you’re used to it by now? Me not being here. Besides, you have your skull…” John sounded annoyed, but there was an affection there. He liked that I needed him.

“You wouldn’t answer your phone.”

He didn’t dignify it with an answer. We sat for a while, not speaking. John was always patient with me. He knew what to do - searching for any signs of news that might relate to Moriarty. I didn’t even have to ask. It made me smile. I went back to typing and searching.

“You’re wrong, you know,” I finally said.

“That’s probably true,” he agreed without knowing why, and without looking up from the papers. “What am I wrong about _this_ time?”

“You’re _not_ nothing. I haven’t been able to think. _All week_. And now you’re here and it’s like… you just…everything is clearer.” I said, suddenly coming up with an idea and beginning to search it on my computer.

“Thanks…I think.” John looked confused. He had clearly forgotten his words from last week.

“What you said the other night…” I thought I should try to address it now he was here.

“Sherlock you don’t have to say anything. Really.” John always did prefer to pretend things were fine. It usually suited me, but after the other night, I knew things had to change.

“No, I…I want to. I wish you had told me about it.” I admitted.

“You’ve never told me about _your_ time away. I figured we just weren’t going to discuss it.”

“I hope you know that I didn’t do it to hurt you. John. I did it to _save_ you. I always intended to come back. I just…it had to be believable. So you would live.”

“Honestly Sherlock I don’t need you to…” John began more uncomfortable.

“I was tortured.” I said and I knew it would create the right impact.

“What?” It was news to John. I always assumed Mycroft might have filled him in behind my back, but apparently not.

“In the time I was gone. I was tortured. More than once.”

“You never…”

“No. I didn’t want to talk about it.” I said, looking at the computer screen and not making eye contact.

John sat in silence. He didn’t know what to say.

“But it was worth it. All of it. To keep you alive. And I thought…well I hoped…that you would be here, at Baker Street when I returned. When I saw you…at the grave…I saw it as a sign that maybe you felt…”

John looked at me and I felt like it was a little hopeful. Maybe I was misreading it.

“Well, I didn’t want to hope. But it kept me going. The memory of you at the grave. Asking me not to be dead. It kept me alive.”

“Sherlock I…”

“I know you have Mary, and a baby on the way very soon. I know that our timing is…less than perfect. But can I just say this one thing? Just one thing and then I won’t say it again…”

John looked nervous all of a sudden. “Go on then.”

I thought of all the times we _could_ have said things to one another and it never eventuated, the number of times we _almost_. Was this the time? I could see John waiting, wondering, maybe wondering the same thing?

“I lied.” I decided to start with, and I could see John had not been expecting that.

“Which time exactly?” He said, and I bristled at the implication in John’s question.

“The first night we had dinner,” I said.

“Sorry what?” John was definitely lost.

“You asked me… about my…situation. And I lied,” I confessed. John was really struggling to keep up.

“At Angelo’s? Sherlock that was _ages_ ago. I don’t see how that’s relevant now.”

“You made me nervous. From the second we met and you handed me your phone, you know? You weren’t put off by my very deliberate attempts to be off-putting. They usually worked on everyone, but they didn’t with you. You seemed to find me…interesting. And it made me nervous. I don’t have friends. You know that. At least, well Molly and Gavin…”

“Greg,” John corrected.

“Right, sorry. Greg. And Mrs Hudson, obviously. But none of them spent that much time with me. Not really. Not like a real friend. I’d never had that before. And I was excited at the prospect that you might be a potential friend. I didn’t want to scare you away. So I lied.”

“I don’t think you could have done anything to scare me away. If the amount of body parts in the fridge and all the insults and dead bodies didn’t. None of it scared me.”

“I know. But that first dinner, if I hadn’t fobbed off your advances…”

“I wasn’t… that’s not what I was…” John said embarrassed.

“John. Be serious. It’s me.” I gave him a stern look.

“It’s irrelevant in any case isn’t it? So many things have happened since then, Sherlock. It’s all fine honestly. Besides, I’m married now.”

“Would you have? If I had made my intentions clear?” I suddenly felt nervous asking.

“Your _intentions_? Jesus, Sherlock where is this coming from? I thought you wanted help with Moriarty? Isn’t that why I’m here?” He closed the paper he had been looking at and fixed his gaze on me trying to figure out where I was going.

“I did. I _do_. But this is important too, John. I didn’t know. Until the other night, I didn’t realise how much you… how deeply you…the ripple effect of what my decision on the rooftop at Barts had created. I was so focussed on what I needed to do to protect you, I didn’t think about what it would do to you after and that it might cause you pain. My brother was so focussed on keeping an eye on me and coming to my rescue, he didn’t really keep up his observations on you either as he should have done. As I asked him to. If I had known… well I would have come straight back to see you. Damn the consequences.”

“Why? You clearly had your plans sorted. Why would you come back?”

After everything he said to me a week ago, I was genuinely surprised by his response.

“Why?? John…don’t you _understand_?”

“Sherlock you’re the one always reminding us all that we’re idiots. You’re going to have to be more specific.” John said, looking back at the papers in annoyance.

“Well because…I…I love you.” I finally said it.

John looked up. That got his attention.

“I’ve always loved you. From the very beginning. I just always thought you knew and didn’t…”

“Sorry, what?”

He sounded almost annoyed. Not how I had hoped this would go. _Oh he really didn’t know_.

“Is this one of your tricks Sherlock? Are you trying to mess with me? Because it’s not very funny.” He said angrily.

“Why would I do that?” I asked.  
  
“Because that’s what you do!” He yelled.

We sat looking at each other. I looked back at my computer, not sure how to make it clear to him that I was serious. John had gone back to the paper, flicking at it aggressively, deciding this was not as serious conversation. Just me being obtuse as usual.

I decided. I stood up and walked to the middle of the room and started unbuttoning my shirt. John looked up confused.

“What are you doing now? Honestly Sherlock, I have no idea what you’re trying to…” his words were cut off as I turned around so he could see. I had dropped my shirt off my shoulders enough for him to see a good sample of the criss-crossed scarring on my back from the whips. “ _Jesus_ …” he stood up slowly and walked over. He was transfixed by the scars, a mask of medical professional crossing his face.

“ _What the hell, Sherlock_ …” he whispered, “how have you never…I’ve never…”

“Well no, you haven’t been here. So it was easy to keep it hidden.” I tried to keep the nerves out of my voice. I had never planned to show him.

“They did this to you…” and he reached out and touched one of the scars so tenderly. I flinched at the unexpected contact.

“Sorry, they don’t still hurt do they?” He asked, worried.  
  
“No, your hand was a bit cold.” I said with a smile.

“Sherlock I don’t even know what to…”

I pulled the shirt back up to my shoulders and turned around to meet his eyes. “We both have scars John. That’s what I wanted to say. But it doesn’t matter now.”

John looked at me and his eyes were so sad, like he had spent years suppressing all the emotions about that time. The realisation that we had both been through so much and never mentioned it to one another.

“You went through that…to save all of us?” He asked.

“Yes. Well mostly to save _you_ , but yes.”

“I don’t think I’m… that I was worth…and then you came back and I…” his eyes widened. “Oh my god Sherlock, I hit you. _I threw you to the ground_ …” John started to panic, his eyes wild with the memory.

“John. Stop.” I grabbed on to his arms. “ _It doesn’t matter now_.” And I gave him a firm look of reassurance. He stilled and our eyes were fixed on each other.

“I was in the middle of proposing to Mary, and there you were and I was so angry. You had left me all that time, suffering. And I…just wanted you to be back so badly. And then there you were, but it was so…late.” John finished looking down, remembering.

“I know.”

“You were _so late,_ ” he whispered sadly.

“I know. I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“I…loved you too, you know,” he admitted.

“I know,” I replied.

John looked up at that. “But you never said…”

“Well I suspected, and I thought you knew how I felt, and you just didn’t want me like that.” I said matter of factly.

“For a genius you could _not_ have been more wrong,” he retorted.

I smiled at that. He was right. It had been a monumental miscalculation on my part.

“John it doesn’t matter. I wanted you to know. I was never _really_ sure about you. Until you told me the other night. And I spent the week thinking about everything you said. I wanted you to know that even though you were struggling with all those thoughts. That I felt the same.”

“How does that help? How does that help now when I’m…married…” he began annoyed and as I opened my mouth to speak he finished his thought unexpectedly. “…to the wrong person.”

It surprised me. I didn’t know he felt that strongly and I suddenly felt a tinge of guilt.

“Mary is a good wife.” I tried to placate.

“Ummm, she _shot_ you.”  
  
“Well apart from that obviously.”

“She lied to _me_."  
  
“And that.”

John started to look unwell and he pulled away.

“I need to sit down.” He walked back to the couch, and put his head between his hands. I buttoned my shirt back up while I kept an eye on him.

“John, I didn’t want to tell you to make things difficult. I thought it might help to know that you hadn’t been struggling all that time for no reason.”

“Well you have Sherlock,” he huffed, “you’ve made things so much more complicated.”

“I don’t see why.” I said simply.

“Don’t you?” He looked frustrated with me. “You really can be an idiot sometimes.”

I walked over and sat beside him on the couch and he wriggled uncomfortably at me being so close.

“Well we’re both a right pair aren’t we,” he huffed to himself. “All this time and neither of us said anything.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I sat quietly, nodding, allowing him time to process. He wasn’t ready to look at me yet.

“John… I don’t expect anything. I hope you know I’m not telling you so that you’ll…”

John reached across and put his hand on my knee, stopping me from finishing.

“Stop.”

And just like that I stopped. If John didn’t want to discuss it any more I would respect that. He didn’t move his hand from my knee, but neither did he look at me. He just sat, breathing, thinking. Eventually I thought it was best to leave it alone and I began to get up from the couch.

Before I had time to process what was happening, John had grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the couch and towards him. Without a word he used his other hand to grab my face and pull it towards his and he kissed me. It was violent and unplanned, his teeth colliding with my lip, breaking the skin. The taste of blood only made it a little more thrilling as we both caved to the moment. After the initial surprise, I wrapped my arms around him and pulled us both into it more roughly. Everything else about the world disappeared. There was no Mary. There was no Moriarty. There was no ugly past hurts and torment. Just this moment between us that we had both wanted so badly for so long. The kiss lengthened and softened as the relief of it sunk in. John pushed against me and I fell back along the couch cushions, so he could get better leverage and take control of the kiss, his hands running up and down my chest and up my neck, into my hair. The passion in this one moment summing up years of waiting and wondering. And it was everything I had imagined it would be and so much more. John’s breath suddenly came out in a shudder and I realised, he had begun to cry. A tear had worked it’s way down his face and fallen onto my cheek from his position above me. The tear slowly sliding down and adding salt to the taste of the kiss.

“John…” I interrupted the kiss to check in, pushing him off me for a moment.

“ _I don’t want to go_ ,” he said sadly.

“Then don’t.” I said simply. I knew what I wanted. It wasn’t fair to ask, I knew that too.

“But Mary. The _baby,_ ” he said sadly. “I don’t think I know how to…”

“John…” I pushed against him to sit us back up and John wiped at his face as I looked at him properly. “…I can’t ask you to leave them. Please don’t think that was my intention to…”

“You don’t have to ask. You’ve never had to ask. Don’t you realise that? Since that first day, when I gave you my phone, I knew I was in trouble,” and he laughed slightly, “I knew I would follow you anywhere, Sherlock Holmes…even to the grave if that’s what it took.”

“Well I’m certainly glad you didn’t do _that -_ would have been one hell of an awkward homecoming conversation with everyone.” And they both laughed at that before they sat quietly, the stillness between them awkward and uncertain. I loved how John always found my morbid sense of humour funny too.

“This is such a mess. If you had told me. If I had known. I just wish I hadn’t…but Sherlock, I have always belonged to you. I _will_ always belong…to you.”  
  
I looked at him, suddenly more shy than I had ever been. “Do you mean that?”

“Of course I do, you git,” he said in disbelief.

“Then don’t go. Stay here with me. I don’t want you to go.” I finally pushed. It was worth a try.

John smiled and suddenly everything seemed so much simpler. This is how it was always meant to be. Just John and I, at Baker Street, facing the world. Everyone else be damned. I had to have more. I leaned in this time and held his face with both hands.

“John Watson, you always keep me right.” And I kissed him much more gently, carefully. This time, I wanted him to feel the longing that had been sitting there in my heart for so many years, I wanted him to know that I knew how hard it would be for him to step away from Mary and his obligations to their marriage, to the baby. I wanted him to feel that he could trust me to look after him, that I would not leave him ever again. And I knew he felt it, because he kissed me back with the same intensity. Years of wanting this had been worth the wait, all the pain and uncertainty, to bring us to this exact moment, together.

As the kiss ended, John let out a sigh, gave a little shake of his head in disbelief at the situation and said, “right then… Moriarty?”

And like that, he had accepted his fate. We were back to the business of solving cases, only this time, there would be no doubt in either of our minds. We had each other and nothing would stand in our way ever again. I put my hand on his cheek and gave him my best smile of appreciation and reassurance, a smile that said _I love you_ , clear as day, before standing up to walk to my computer.

“Yes. Moriarty…come and see what I’ve found so far, and tell me what you think.”


End file.
